Turn the Page
by Pipkin Sweetgrass
Summary: COMPLETE! AU, OOC, from the Universe of the Bee Chamer - Could one of the things that shaped Boromir and Faramir have been the fate of a little girl? Merry and Pippin figure heavily, of course!
1. Default Chapter

Foreword: _This tale takes part in the universe of the Bee Charmer. As we enter the tale, Boromir lies in the House of Healing in Minas Tirith. If you have not read the original Bee Charmer story, it would be well to do so, or you may not know what brought him where he now is. _

I intended this to be a much shorter story, but it took on a life of its own, and so I can't include it in The Bee Charmed: Missing Scenes story.

THIS STORY IS RATED FOR VIOLENCE AND RAPE! There is no graphic description of this, so I'm not rating it too high, but it is there nonetheless.

Horrible things happen in wartime, and this story deals with that. I'm speaking to the shaping of Boromir and Faramir as warriors in this tale, and why Boromir is so protective of Merry and Pippin, especially Pippin. 

There is no slash in this story. I do write some things that could be taken that way, and if you like, you can see it that way, I can't stop you. Having said this, however, I see Boromir's love of "his" hobbits as a sweet and innocent type of brotherly/fatherly love. He may give them the occasional hug or even a smooch now and then. He even will take a nap with them, but that's it, nothing more. His physical expressions of love are intended to show that he truly cares about them and would never use them as sexual playthings.(he's got me for that!) Yes, in my stories, there are some "slashable" moments, but I assure you, these boys are disgustingly hetero, in spite of the fact that they aren't afraid to show their love in a physical way. 

In the immortal words of Billy Boyd, they are "together…but not like that." Hobbits can, are and should be loved, hugged and occasionally smooched. Anyone who would harm a hobbit should be shot on general principles, and if I were you, I wouldn't let 'em in my house.

One more warning: yes, here is sweetness and fluffiness amid the horrors of war and its aftermath, and in the House of Healing, where, goodness knows, one should be hugged and smooched. If there was ever a time for sweetness and fluffiness, a horrible thing like wartime and near-death is it. Besides, they've been through so much they deserve a little sweetness and fluffiness.

As usual, you will not see Boromir killed in any fic of mine. I cannot and will not do it. A natural death is the only way Boromir will ever depart in my fiction. So there!

As usual, these characters and places aren't mine, except for Firiel, her father Thalion, Saro, and Boromir's house in the Old Forest. They belong to Tolkien and Peter Jackson/New Line. I get nothing from this but the pleasure of visiting with old friends in Middle Earth. If you wish to sue me, you won't get anything because around my place there are two things you don't hear: meat frying and change rattling. Besides, I'll just sic Boromir on you, and you know how he can be. Don't do it. It could get ugly. You know he has a temper on him and the muscle and will to back it up. He can and will open a can of Middle Earth Whoop-ass on you. Yes, this is AU and OOC, but then again isn't that what fan fiction is really all about? We expand and experiment with the places and characters, do we not? We take the "action figures" out of the toy box and play.

Having said that…on with the tale. 


	2. chapter one

Chapter One

Faramir strode into the room where his brother lay, still unconscious. He stood beside him and watched his chest rise and fall. It seemed to Faramir that his brother's well-muscled chest struggled for every breath taken. Boromir was still ashen and his lips still a bit blue, but he did look a little better than he had. So unfair! He had only just gotten his beloved brother back, and now fate was attempting to wrest him once more from a brothers' life and heart.

Faramir, like his sturdy brother, was not easily given to tears. Such is the life of a soldier and leader. One is not allowed such luxuries. Even now, when there was no one here but his brother and Pippin, his brother's small caretaker, Faramir found his grief hard won, even with Pippin sound asleep.

What had brought Boromir to this fate? Why must he suffer so? Faramir pulled a chair close to the sickbed, sat and took his brother's hand in his own. He studied the hand. It was battered, scarred and callused. Boromir's nightshirt was loose at the neck, and the broad chest was visible, bearing the many scars from a virtual rain of arrows. Faramir knew that, even though the skill of a shaman of the Wild Folk had played a part in saving Boromir, without the grace of the Valar, Boromir would surely have died. His brother had spoken of something he called _the Light. _The Light had decided it was not time for Boromir to come to the Hall of the Longfathers. For whatever reason, his brother had lived, and Faramir would not, could not let him go now, when he had only just gotten him back.

In the back of his mind and deep in his heart, the small child that Faramir had once been wailed in grief and fear. _Don't go, Boromir, don't go, I need you! You, who have always been in my heart, you who have always loved me as both a brother and a father, you cannot leave, not now! _

Faramir recalled Boromir's account of his years before returning to Minas Tirith. Faramir had had time to think this tale over, and was convinced that the ring had certainly scarred his brother's heart and mind. There had been no Blessed Realm in which Boromir might have sought healing. No Grey Haven, not for Boromir. He had always done for himself. Even half-mad from the ring, Boromir had done for himself what none could or would do. He had come out of the Shadow, year by year, little by little, always finding a pathway, winding and narrow, to healing and the Light.

Faramir thought of Boromir living as a near recluse in the Old Forest, slowly healing, like some great, wounded bear. His hobbit friends had played a greater part in his healing than they could ever guess, Faramir was sure of it. Pippin's account of what had happened in the garden of Bag End only made Faramir more sure of this than ever.

He studied his brother's face, pale and ashen under the deep tan. That familiar face had aged but little; his time in the Westmarch had been more than kind to him. It had been a restorative, a tonic of pure life and healing. Faramir wanted to go there, himself, to see what complex or simple magic, extraordinary or everyday variety had worked this wonder. By rights, Boromir should have still been half-mad. Something had lifted the darkness the ring had cast upon his soul, and Faramir would know more of it. Boromir shifted in his sleep, drawing his hand away and moaning. Faramir laid his hand upon his brother's brow and smoothed away a stray lock of hair.

He moved his chair to the other side of the bed. Boromir's other hand was curled around Pippin's smaller one, and Faramir, sitting in his chair and laying his head down on the mattress beside the sleeping hobbit's head, lay his hand on top of Boromir's hand. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Some time later, Boromir woke a little. His chest hurt horribly. His hand felt warm. He looked at it, and saw it was pressed between Faramir's hand and Pippin's hand. As badly as he felt, he could not help smiling weakly at the scene. Though he felt as weak as water, with his other hand he stroked his brother's sleeping head. His hair felt just like it had when he was but a small boy, when Boromir had been so much larger than life allowed in the eyes of his younger brother. Boromir thought of those years together, of the closeness they had shared, and found comfort in the memories. His eyes drooped once, twice, then closed in sleep. The moon rose, finding the three still sleeping with their hands linked. 

When Faramir woke, Merry had taken Pippin's place. Faramir lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. He carefully watched Boromir to see if there had been any change at all, and Blessing of Blessings, Boromir's eye's snapped open, instantly awake in that way that had always astounded everyone who knew him.

"Hallo, you're both awake!" Merry said with a broad smile. "Pippin shall be most put out he missed it. He's only just gone to get a bite to eat and to fetch something that belongs to the both of you. He hasn't left your side, Boromir. Faramir, too, has been quite difficult to deal with. He's been here every chance he could get."

Faramir leaned over Boromir and embraced him. At last he could no longer hold back his tears. He snuffled into Boromir shoulder a little, but then mastered himself. Boromir only chuckled and ruffled his hair as though he was still the small boy he had guarded and sheltered.

"Only you," Faramir laughed, "would have the wherewithal to ruffle the hair of a Lord, Boromir!"

"Still perceptive, I see…" A gentle smile played at the corners of Boromir's lips. He struggled to sit up.

__

"Here, now!" 

The three looked toward the direction the raised voice came from. Pippin stood in the doorway, a scowl on his face and his arms crossed over his chest.

"Just what do you think you are about, Boromir? You lie back down right now. King's Orders, you know." Pippin strode purposefully towards them. As he uncrossed his arms, Boromir saw something in his hand: a small book with a blue leather jacket. His journal!

Boromir lay back on the bed obediently. Pippin could be difficult when he set his head on something. The hobbit approached the bed, and without so much as a word, climbed up on the bed and sat by Boromir.

"I have something of yours, Boromir." Pippin said, holding out the journal. His small face was sad and sober. His demeanor, reluctant, as though the book was something he had held dear for a very long time, and would just as soon have kept, even knowing he should not keep it.

"How did you come by this?" Boromir asked, placing a hand on the proffered item.

"Strider…I mean, the King; he sent it to me years ago. I should have given it to you sooner, and I meant to. It's just…oh, I don't know!" Pippin answered, and his face reddened a little.

"Why, Peregrin Took!" scolded Merry. "Just tell him, he won't bite. I'm sure he'll understand, and not hold it against you."

A long silence ensued in which both brothers waited patiently. The hobbit in question had lowered his head, looking down at his hand, which stubbornly refused to let go of the small blue book. Boromir tugged at the book. Pippin still did not let it go. Suddenly Pippin sniffled, then began to openly weep.

__

Oh, you would, wouldn't you, Pippin Took! You'd do the one thing that always makes me lose my ability to deal with you in any way but one. Boromir thought. He pulled Pippin to him and tucked him under one arm. They lay back on the pillows for a few moments. Faramir watched his brother with a look of amusement, but Boromir raised a finger to his lips in a gesture that bid silence, his brow knitted with worry.

He and Faramir, like many brothers, could somehow communicate without speaking, using only a glance, a gesture, a well-placed silence. Faramir knew, without being told, that Boromir wanted to allow Pippin a moment to gather himself, to feel sure Boromir and Faramir wouldn't be angry with him. Faramir, being who he was, could tell that at times Pippin was still the young and uncertain hobbit that looked up to the brothers and both wanted and needed their approval.

"It was all I had left of you!" Pippin finally said, drying his eyes. "For so many years, it was all I…all _we _had left of you. And the King sent it to me…and I…I read it. Perhaps I should not have, but I did. He did send it to me, after all, and I thought you dead, and I didn't think…"

Boromir gently cuffed Pippin's cheek, drawing a sheepish grin from the hobbit. Boromir gave him his best mock growl. "Tom-fool of a Took! You're a bother and a nuisance! You've had it long enough! Give it!"

Pippin smiled now, his eyes lit up, and Merry and Boromir both saw for a flash the youngster that had joined the Fellowship, not much more than a mere child. The warm green eyes twinkled in delight, recalling the young hobbit that had first admired, then grown to love Boromir as a brother. At last Pippin released the little blue book. Merry gave Faramir a little nudge with his elbow.

"He always did have a way with Pippin." Merry said under his breath, smiling warmly at his dearest friend and the Man who was so dear to both hobbits. This was apparent to Faramir, and he had long known of it, but seeing the bond between Boromir and these two halflings with his own eyes brought home to Faramir the depth of the affection between the three. He felt grateful to the hobbits now in a way he had not grasped before.

Boromir roughly rubbed his knuckles on the crown of Pippin's head, drawing out an undignified, hobbity little squeak of protest from Pippin that did not much sound like the little knight of Gondor that Pippin was. Pippin tried to glower at Boromir, then burst into peals of laughter when Boromir gave him a most disrespectful poke in the ribs. _You'll make a fine father, _thought Faramir, _and who should know this better than I, my father-brother! _

Boromir grinned with delight at having gotten Pippin's goat, then gestured to Merry and Faramir, and the bed soon was quite crowded as they looked at the first pages of the book together.

Boromir's penmanship was quite good; the characters all even and perfectly aligned. Four heads crowded together, and Faramir, to keep Boromir from beating him to it, thereby taxing his already weakened condition, began to read aloud.

The journal started out as if it were not a journal, but a letter. It seemed personal, and now Faramir knew why Pippin had felt guilty. The hobbit felt he had intruded on something quite private between two brothers. The first few pages were an account of the first leg of Boromir's journey to Imladris. Much of it was only a brief sketch of endless days trekking through the wilderness, and a rather exiting account of his near-drowning while crossing a river, losing his horse and virtually all his supplies in the process. Faramir recalled what a strong swimmer Boromir had always been. In this, as in almost everything else, Boromir had always desired to be the best, and not for the first time was Faramir's heart filled with pride in his brother.

The journal continued with an entry which had been written in Imladris, just after the Council of the Wise. Faramir had a good reading voice, and soon they were quite absorbed in the reading.

__

Dearest Brother,

When you gave me this little book in which to record my experiences on the road to Imladris as well as my impressions of the place, I thought it might make quite dull reading. Little did I know it might prove anything but dull. I fear my skills at recording this account may be remiss. I am no word-smithy. Give to me a sword and a battle in which to wield it! As you can tell from what you have thus far read, I lack the inner voice needed to write well such accounts, unlike yourself. Neither the reading nor telling of tales has ever been listed among my greater skills, and my account of the river crossing was, I'm sure, the most exiting part of my tale. Wandering through the wilderness, though, leaves little of import to write about, but now that I am here, there is much to tell.

There are some matters which I can not and will not record here, lest this book fall into the wrong hands, but what I feel I can write of, I will. In other words, matters more light and in less need of discretion.

Let me start, then, by relating that halflings are real. No, indeed I am not in a fanciful mood. They are as real as you and I. I have seen them with my own eyes. They are a strange people, only half our height, but it seems, to me, greater in spirit. There is one, in particular, with a greater amount of spleen than his small body has any right to hold. His companion is like him in that manner, but with a quieter demeanor. These two halflings are a matched set, being both cousins and the best of friends. Does this put you in mind of a like pair? 

I assure you it was a shock to me to see even one, but here I have met quite a little group of them. The first I mentioned, he of the spleen, you'll recall, bore such a remarkable resemblance to Firiel that this alone shook me in and of itself, more so, I think, than even that he was indeed a creature I had thought to be but legend. It was as though she had a twin brother, somehow born a halfling. It shocked me so that I immediately thought of the dreams we had. Can this, I wonder, be the one in the dream? Could there be more than one? 

They, like all halflings, I'm told, are given to food and drink and the smoking of pipeweed. They favor green, yellow and brown in the color of their garments. It's true about the feet of halflings. No halfling has ever worn shoes, and yes, their feet are, indeed, covered with the same curly hair as their heads, and the soles of their feet are as the soles of a sturdy pair of boots. They are given to easy laughter, and I'm told tears as well, though I have yet to see the latter for myself. These two are from quite affluent families, though the father of the youngest one is a farmer. Farming and gardening are also counted as a thing of great value to halflings, as well as song and dance. These creatures delight in all things joyful, and I confess I envy them in this regard. Would that our own people could be afforded these delights!

The first, him of the spleen I wrote of, is one Peregrin Took. He will tell you to kindly call him "Pippin," if he likes you, and I don't think he has met too many people he does not like, for all here call him Pippin. He is the smallest and the slightest of the halflings and the youngest as well. Sometimes it tells. His eyes are green and his curly hair is a light brown, which the sun turns gold at the ends. His hair is perpetually in his eyes, and seems to spring in an unruly mop no matter how he tries to keep it groomed. This is not to say he tries very hard to keep himself tidy, as his cousin does. I assure you he does not, and would happily roll in the dirt and forest debris before coming to table. He sings to himself or anyone else whom listens, willing or no. His voice is high and sweet, and he would do well as a court musician. I'm told he was trained to play the violin and harp, though he insists that he cares not for this pursuit at all. 

He is given to fits of laughter at the most inappropriate times, and loves jokes, both spoken and practical, and he seems to delight in questions. He reminds me of you in this respect. Unlike you, he is pert to the point of being impertinent. This is not to say he is rude, for he is quite well behaved most of the time, especially when trying to make an impression. He is quite affectionate, and I fear he becomes attached far too easily for his own good, and gives his trust away as though it was nothing. He is very young, and has not yet learned the peril of such a thing. It is no secret that he quite admires me, and tells me that I "seem as kindly as I am lordly." 

When his companion is busy elsewhere or absorbed in some pursuit Pippin finds dull, he is always nearby, shadowing my footsteps, asking a thousand and one questions, asking me riddles, attempting to persuade me to play a game or take a walk with him. He is fascinated by my sword and shield and tells me he has never seen such a ponderous blade. My shield he seems unable to keep his hands off of, and once already I have had to take it away from him, as he was attempting to slide down a hill on it! I caught him with the horn once, and very nearly lost patience with him until I saw the hurt on his face when I scolded him. When I gentled my demeanor, he apologized profusely, and when I tousled his hair, he fairly leapt into my arms for a hug. 

As you might imagine, I was taken aback by this open affection. Unlike Men, halflings are unashamed of such demonstrations. They do not fear to show what is in their hearts. This sounds childish on the surface, but I think child like is a more fitting description. Even as he apologized, he was eyeing the horn again as though his fingers itched to hold it, yet he was sincere in his repentance, and I can tell that, tempted as he is I need not worry that he will repeat the offense. I need not remind you of Firiel in this regard. I'm sure you remember well when it was she who did the very same deed. He is so like her. They bear an almost eerie resemblance, in spite of being of opposite sex and different races, but let me not dwell on this. 

The other is a little older and better behaved, and with a gentlemanly behavior that belies his merry nature. Oddly enough, his friends call him "Merry," though his actual name is Meriadoc Brandybuck. He is quieter and more reserved and seems to take responsibility quite seriously, and part of that responsibility seems to be looking out for his younger kinsman. Or should it be "kinshobbit"? For they call themselves "hobbits." His eyes are blue, quite large and bright and his hair a bit darker and curlier than his younger cousin. He is given to the studying of maps and herblore. I think the two of you might well get along quite famously, for he, like you, is studious, whereas Pippin, like myself, is more given to action, and if action is not forthcoming quickly enough, like myself, he will do something to bring about action. 

Merry enjoys a good wager, and one might get the impression he would wager on anything, even the outcome of his grandmother being hugged by a bear. Often his wager will involve the likelihood of Pippin getting himself (and anyone else in the general vicinity) in a pickle. Merry is a patient soul. He assures me he learned the good of patience in keeping up with Pippin, and I wonder at times how Merry ever managed to have time enough to do anything besides look after Pippin. He does not mind this in the least, and tells me that no amount of trouble or inconvenience outweighs the rewards of this self-appointed task. It is a wonder Merry has a life of his own, so absorbed is he in looking after his charge, yet he seems to have no problem in this regard. It is a mark of character in him I truly admire. 

I'm told Merry loves to cook, as all hobbits do, but Merry says he enjoys it more than even most halflings, who begin to cook as young as two years of age. Can you imagine a child of Minas Tirith learning to cook at age two? Yet, I am assured that this is truth. Like all halflings, Merry will speak for hours on end of family trees in great detail, and it boggles the mind how he can account for so many relations, remembering even small details of the members of the family in question. 

Merry is quite an admirer of all females. He has an eye for the fair sex, and will gaze openly at the ladies of the fair folk here. His appetite in this regard outstrips any Man or Elf I have ever encountered. Pippin tells me it's the same everywhere he goes, and Merry will watch females of all races with equal enthusiasm. Pippin, too, I've caught admiring the ladies here, but more shyly than his cousin. I find this amusing that otherwise he hasn't a shy bone in his body, but a pretty face and shapely figure will have him blushing and averting his eyes, as though he is sure everyone within shouting distance can read his mind. 

Merry is sturdier, taller and stronger than his little cousin, which is a good thing when Pippin finds trouble to be got into. He thinks nothing of wrestling Pippin to the floor in order to make him behave. This illustrates perfectly the machinery of the relationship between the two. Pippin will behave more easily for Merry than anyone else, even the eldest of the four halflings, whom both of the pair obviously hold dear and in high regard.

The eldest of these hobbits is called Frodo, and with him always is his servant, Samwise, called "Sam." I shall tell you more of these two when I come home. Suffice to say I have taken the council I came here for, have received what information may be given, and shall depart in a few days to return. At least the return will not be so lonely as the arrival, as I will have companions with me this time, and they travel with me most of the way. The hobbits will share my journey most of the way along with a few others, one being a dwarf, another an elf, yet another a man and last of all an aged wise man. I think you may know him, but I will not write of him here. As I said, I must refrain from writing a good many things down in this book, and an explanation shall be forthcoming as soon as can be done. 

There is a fifth hobbit here, of quite advanced age. He will not be accompanying us due to his age. His name is Bilbo, and a sweeter, kinder, more genteel hobbit one could never meet. The other four are more than a little fond of him, and I must say I was quite taken with the little old fellow. He is related to three of the other four halflings here and raised one of them, which cannot have been easy, for he is a confirmed bachelor. His humor is droll and he is full of stories from the Four Corners of the world. He is well traveled, unlike most halflings. Also, he is quite familiar with elves and dwarves, and has a good grasp on the language of the elves, both Quenya and Sindarin. He taught the other four halflings their letters and maths, and is quite fond of them. His years, as I said, are quite advanced, and I hope you get to meet him ere he passes on. This is a halfling whom I am certain you would find most fascinating, as he is quite learned, and is by all accounts a wonderful writer. He is working on a book called "The Red Book of Westmarch." Perhaps some day you might be able to read it, but I would that you could meet the one who wrote it.

When it was decided what was to be done at the council, Elrond insisted Merry and Pippin should not be allowed to accompany the rest of us. He did not, however, expect to have to deal with the likes of this pair. They intruded into the council, which was supposed to be closed, and demanded to come along. The look of surprise and outrage on Elrond's face was without price! Even as I write this, I cannot help laughing, especially at Pippin's remark concerning a "mission…quest…thing." I suppose this is lost somewhat in translation. Perhaps this is one of those situations in which one must be there to fully appreciate it, and I do wish you could have been there with me.

Imladris is a beautiful place, and I quite feel you would love it here. Given to tales and elven lore as you are, I assure you that you would be quite happy here. Not only tales and lore are to be had here. There is music and art, peace and quiet…in other words, everything you love, while I seem not to be able to sit still long enough to fully enjoy as you do.

It is now time for our evening meal, and so I close this entry. Even as I write this, Pippin is nattering to me to hurry up, and that he will surely perish of hunger if I do not come at once. He tells me there is apple pie for desert, and is impertinently tugging at my sleeve as Firiel used to do. While this does sadden me a little, do not fear that his reminding me of her will disturb me overmuch, for oddly enough, his resemblance to her somehow gives me a little comfort, though I do not understand why. He is now jumping about like a rabbit and is torn between impatience and the urge to laugh. Merry is standing in the doorway watching his cousin with a look that can only be described as patronizing indulgence. I did not know this could be accomplished, but Merry seems to be the only creature I have heard of with this ability. More later.

Faramir closed the little blue book. His three companions grumbled at this, but he insisted that Boromir take rest. Faramir was quite hungry as was Merry, and the two decided to raid the kitchens, promising to bring Boromir something to eat. Faramir placed the little blue book on a bedside table, and was about to turn and take leave when Pippin raised the question Faramir and Boromir already knew would be brought up.

"Who is Firiel?" he asked. "Merry and I have wondered about this for ever so long, now. Will you tell of her to us?"

For what seemed the longest time the two brothers regarded each other. Faramir was watching Boromir sharply, as though measuring the strain on his brother. Boromir opened his mouth to speak, but Faramir raised his hand, palm out, in a gesture that was a gentle but firm insistence that he not speak.

"So long as Boromir has rest and repast, and if the tale will not overtax him, we will speak of her later. This is a tale which should be related by my brother, I think." Faramir said, placing a hand on Boromir's shoulder and giving it an affectionate squeeze. "What say you, brother? Do you feel up to the task, or will this tire you or cause you grief?"

Boromir was silent for a while, seeming to be looking inside himself. Finally, with a nod, he spoke. "It will not tire me overmuch, I think. But it is a sad tale. Perhaps it is time I spoke of her. Many long years it has been during which I could not bear to speak of her very much, and then only to Faramir. But yes, it is time her tale, and our part in it was told. You have waited many years to find out. Will you be content to wait a little while longer? I am very tired, and very hungry, and my chest hurts. Can you two wait long enough for a meal and a rest?"

Merry smiled gently. "Of course we can wait. I'll tell Ioreth to bring you something for the pain on my way out. Pippin may burst, but if he does I shall put him back together in time to hear the story. Take rest and food, Boromir. You're what's important right now. Let's go now, Faramir. I'm starved! Pippin will keep Boromir company, won't you, Pip?"

Pippin yawned hugely. "Of course I will, goose! You two go. We'll be right here."

Faramir and Merry turned to go. Just before they left Boromir's room, they turned back to wave at the pair in the sickroom. They both laughed softly. Boromir looked at Pippin to see what he was doing that was so amusing. Pippin had fallen asleep as swiftly as Boromir could become instantly awake. Careful to not make too much noise, he laughed softly, then waved his arms at Faramir and Merry as though shooing children outside to play. 

"Bring me something to eat as soon as you two have had your fill." he said, "We will stay until you come!" He lay back on his pillows and shut his eyes, falling asleep almost a swiftly as Pippin had.


	3. chapter two

Chapter two

Faramir and Merry strolled down the long hallway toward the kitchens in silence. Faramir found Merry to be unnaturally somber and quiet, and he glanced down at Merry to find his face set in an expression that indicated he was deep in some dark thought. The sight made Faramir's brows raise.

"Merry, is something…"

"He told me, you know. Pippin doesn't know; I never let on. Boromir thought him too young to hear such things, and then when we thought he was dead, I just couldn't tell Pippin what he'd told me. He grieved so for Boromir, though you may not know it. I don't think anyone knew how deeply Pippin was hurt by watching Boromir…well, you know. I don't think anyone knew about Pippin's heart being broken but me." Merry sighed, and Faramir was struck by the sadness in Merry's demeanor. "Pippin said he didn't think anyone understood Boromir like we did. He was always fearful that if he spoke openly about it that someone might be…unkind."

"And so he kept his grief locked away and out of sight?" Faramir stopped, placing his hand on Merry's shoulder. "Unless I'm mistaken, this is most unnatural for a hobbit. It cannot have been easy on Pippin to do this, especially since he alone saw Boromir as he fell at Parth Galen. No small wonder then, that Pippin is like a little watchdog where my brother is concerned. He feels that even though Boromir is returned to us, he intends to protect him from as much hurt as he can."

Merry regarded Faramir closely, and for the first time in many years, Faramir felt as though he was being looked not at, but into. It was not uncomfortable, as it had been with Denethor. Quite to the contrary, this was a warm and affectionate probing. "I have heard," said Merry, "that you can see into the hearts of men; hobbits are not excluded in your skill in this regard, I see. I think Boromir does not want me to let on he confided in me and not Pippin. He's not sure Pippin would understand he was only shielding him from an ugly truth."

"And you intend to let Pippin think you're hearing this for the first time." It was not a question.

Merry nodded. "I think Boromir is right in this." Merry gave Faramir a sad smile. "I think, too, that Boromir needs to talk about this. His heart still wants to confuse Pippin with Firiel. I think when he tells us, or I should say, tells Pippin about all this, his heart will sort the two out at last."

They resumed their stroll towards the kitchens, and Faramir spoke again as they walked. "Boromir has never grieved for Firiel. I know him as no other can, Merry. I think that after all these years he is ready to let her go, now, and he can only truly lay her to rest when he has grieved for her. He feels that when he has spoken her tale in full to the one he sees as most like her, both she and Boromir himself can finally be at peace with it."

"Aye, I see." Merry said thoughtfully. "You really are as wise as I've heard you are, Faramir. If I ever doubted it, I no longer do."

The two companions took their meal in relative silence, then took a leisurely stroll about the city, meandering to the fountain and the White Tree. They made small talk, taking care to keep their hearts light, as though steeling themselves for the story soon to be told. After a few hours had passed, they decided to return to Boromir's room where they found the two awake and playing a favorite game, Foxes and Hares. Faramir took a plate laden with bread, cheese, hot soup and the small white cakes Boromir loved so, along with a flask of wine. They chatted idly as Boromir ate, and laughed heartily at Pippin's ability to steal one of the little cakes from under Boromir's nose.

Wordlessly, they again sat on the bed around Boromir. There was a small stretch of silence, then Boromir began.

"How do I start to tell this story? I had a swordmaster when I was fifteen years old. His name was Thalion. He was a widower, and it was his fate to have been left a daughter to raise on his own, Firiel. She had been born too early, and the birth was hard on her mother. She lingered but a few days after Firiel was born, and died with a high fever. Firiel was the smallest baby I've ever seen outside of a hobbit babe. She looked like a toy; she was so small. Everyone was certain she would die, except for Faramir and I.

I liked Thalion quite a lot, and my heart went out to him in his grief and the fear that his daughter, too, could die. It was all too soon, for me, after our mother died, and when Firiel's mother died, I immediately felt something for her baby. She would never know her mother as I had known ours, Faramir and I, and we shared a loss that no child should ever have to know. Faramir and I grew to care deeply for the little one very quickly. It became my habit to visit Thalion and Firiel as frequently as could be done. Firiel was weak and sickly, and spent as much time with the healer as she did with her father. Faramir no longer needed a nurse, and I paid our old nurse myself to take care of her so that Thalion could spend more time with my lessons. At least that is what I told Father!

By the time she had reached five years, she was already running away from her nurse to come and watch me practice with her father. It was she who first called me 'Uncle Bom," because she couldn't quite say my name, and now you know why Borry and Faro were asked to call me by that name.

She was a very pretty little thing, as small and delicate as a little bird. She had green eyes, just exactly like yours, Pippin. I've never known anyone else with eyes that exact color, with the little gold flecks, and the darker green circle all around them, and her hair, too, was just like yours. Only Faro has that look about him besides you, yourself. 

Her skin was like yours, fine and fair, even her mouth was like yours. When I first met you, Pippin, I was quite stricken by the resemblance. It threw me off balance a bit. She was so like you in character, too, with a sense of mischief and a nose for trouble, and the willingness to follow that nose wherever it might lead. No, don't look at me like that, you know I speak only the truth!

Perhaps it was because she was around boys and men so much, but for whatever reason, she didn't behave much like a little girl. For one thing, she refused to dress like a little girl, even when Faramir and I indulged her in the finest dresses. Oh, she would humor us on our birthdays, but no sooner were such celebrations were over with than she would be back in breeches, much to our father's amusement and her father's disapproval. She charmed even our father, and looking back now, I see that she lightened his heart so much that I wonder how different his life might have been had he had a daughter, for she could make him laugh when no one else could.

She hated shoes as much as she hated dresses, and when the weather allowed she wore no shoes unless she was tromping about the woods or going fishing with us. She cared nothing for dolls, either, but preferred the little wooden swords, toy bows and fishing equipment we gave her.

She was fascinated with the Horn, and I somehow knew she would get herself in trouble with it. I had decided one day, when I was supposed to be with my tutor learning Quenya, that the day was too fine to spend indoors, and I slipped away to go fishing. Of course, she followed me. I tried to shoo her away, but it was so hard to refuse her anything. She followed me to the river with her little breeches rolled up to her knees, giving me a wonderful view of the scabs on her knees she had gotten from one of her many spills from climbing trees.

I decided to give her a ride on my shoulder, and had only just gotten to the riverbank when she did it. She grasped the Horn and blew it with all her might. We tried to hide, but it was useless. In no time at all the riverbank and all the pathways back to the city was lined with soldiers. I have never before or since been so embarrassed, and we both paid for that day's mischief, I can tell you.

Try as I might, I couldn't stay angry with her. She was so tiny, I suppose, from her early birth and subsequent illnesses, but she had a joy in her uncommon among our people. I suppose, looking back, this was because Faramir and I sheltered her from the gathering darkness. I wonder, now, if this was wise. Perhaps we should not have. Perhaps, if we had made her understand…"

Boromir went silent. He had grown ashen again, and Faramir insisted it was unwise to continue.

"Perhaps," he said, "we should go and let you rest."

"No!" Boromir cried, "Don't go, not just yet! It's so boring here for Pippin and I…"

He sounded so much like a small boy bedridden with a cold that Faramir could not help but relent. 

"I know!" Pippin said, reaching for the journal and handing it to Faramir. 

Faramir took up the reading, recounting the last days in Imladris and the first few days of the journey.

__

"…during the long watch Pippin and I sat through a few days ago we exchanged stories about childhood games. It seems our two races are not so different after all. We spoke of flying dreams and games common to our different races. I find his company eases my homesickness a bit and helps ease my heart when I miss the company of my brother.

His taste for practical jokes rivals Firiel's. Strider confided to me that Pippin had made a wager with Merry that he could make me laugh. Strider and I placed our own bet. I wagered a handsome amount on my ability to hold my laughter. I was badly mistaken in doing this, for I lost my wager.

I did quite well, even when Pippin put a plate full of blackberries under the posterior of Legolas as he sat down. What I would not have given for you to see it! Can you picture an elf with a purple behind? I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. This was more than Master Took could bear, and he completely lost his temper. Let me see if I can recall one of the things that he accused me of.

I think it went like this: 'You are the most humorless, reticent, obtuse, sour, bitter, miserable man it has been my misfortune to meet. Tell me, is it fashionable where you come from to be grumpy?'

Yes, that was it. Even then, I managed to not laugh. Much to my surprise, Pippin became even angrier,

and gave me quite a push. I lost my balance, falling on my back upon my shield and sliding down an incline. He then further complicated matters by losing his balance and tumbling down to land right on top of me, sending us both sliding yet further down and right into a stream.

I completely lost control at that time. I couldn't catch my breath, and Pippin mistook this for fury. He was certain I was about to break his neck, and didn't think he was going to live much longer until I managed to take in enough breath to laugh. The look of relief on his face made me laugh all the harder, and after days of holding back my humor, once I started laughing, I couldn't stop.

It felt so good that I carried him uphill on my shoulder as I used to carry Firiel. He weighs next to nothing, even soaking wet. We were both, in fact, soaking wet, but Pippin won his wager, much to Merry's misery, for Merry hates to lose a bet. As I usually do, but this time I was quite happy to have lost.

For the rest of the evening's march my feet made these awful squishing sounds in my boots as they had gotten quite wet. When we stopped to rest, I took them off to dry by a small, smokeless fire. My laughing at Pippin as well as with him must have emboldened him, for he put my boots on, wet as they were, and tried to walk about with them. He looked quite comic in them, as they reached his upper thighs. The weight of them on his small legs and feet, as well as the size, made such a humorous scene that Merry and I couldn't stop laughing long enough to fall asleep, even long after Pippin was snoring. (He falls asleep more quickly than any creature I have knowledge of) Pippin stated that he didn't see how we Men bear such things on our feet, and that no self-respecting hobbit would be "shod like a pony." As I said, he is full of spleen.

__

I have decided, as much as the halfling's innocence delights me, I should teach them to fight. They are not children. Specifically, they are definitely not an innocent and helpless little girl. I would not have them suffer her fate, and if they can handle a blade and learn what I may teach them for their own sake, they may not suffer such a fate. You know how I have tormented myself over this, and I'm sure you understand. I have grown quite fond of this pair of hobbits. The other two sticks to Strider like cockle-burrs, but these two, for whatever reason, have decided they quite like me, and I have grown very fond of them both.

I know I swore I would take care to not grow attached to anyone I might lose. You need not scold or remind me of this, though you are free to laugh at me for it. I think that if you ever meet them, and I hope someday you do, you will understand.

I'm not fond of them only because they lighten my heart. They are clever and brave and pure of heart, for all their mischief. Were they bigger, I could count myself fortunate to have them as brothers in arms, for they are also very loyal. If they work together, and I know they will as they do everything together, they may be able to make quite a small fighting team between them. They are quick studies, and are quite eager, and are already interested in acquiring the skill. Merry, being the more sturdy of the pair, will find this easier, but Pippin, though smaller and more delicate, has quicker reflexes and is very eager, and I feel the exercise will develop the musculature needed to wield a small blade. Too, he has a fiery spirit for a halfling, and I'm told the Tooks can be quite fierce. One, if I can take this as truth, was known as 'the Bullroarer' and supposedly knocked the head of a goblin king clean off. I know Pippin admires his ancestor as he speaks of him sometimes, and I can see he's inspired by this tale of bravery and skill in battle. It is true that they are slow in the matter of courage, but it is there, nonetheless, and their love of life and their loyalty will serve when bravery fails. Of course, they love each other dearly, as much as you and I, and as we both know, love is the greatest reason of all to fight, if not the only reason."

Faramir snapped shut the little book firmly. His audience moaned aloud in protest, but Faramir was firm: Boromir must rest a while. He insisted Pippin go to his own room to rest, as he had been sleeping mostly in a chair for some days. He needed to eat a proper meal, as well, and wanted a hot bath, so Faramir sat with Boromir for the evening.

He watched his brother as he rested, marveling once more that he had been returned to him. Boromir's sleeping face brought back to Faramir the memory of the young soldier who had guarded and guided and sheltered him during his youth, when Boromir had been all the father he'd had. _A child raising a child, _he mused. _You tried so hard to set a good example, brother. You did well. Now, live, and be well. Be happy, for once. For once, find peace. You had so little of it as a boy, and less as a young man._


	4. chapter three

Chapter three

Faramir had dozed off in a chair when Aragorn came into the room. Boromir had wakened, and was resting one hand on his brother's head, a small smile on his face. He brightened when he laid eyes on his king, and Aragorn, seeing Boromir watching over his sleeping brother, remembered a poem he had learned as a child:

__

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark

Bay, deep mouth'd welcome as we draw near home;

'Tis sweet to know there's an eye will mark

Our coming, and look brighter when we come…

"How fare you this evening, old dog?" Aragorn asked.

"Old? The 'dog' I don't object to, but _'old'_? I am _not _old!"

Faramir woke, raising his head and causing Boromir's fingers to skate down his face. He shook his head. The scene made the king laugh aloud.

He gave Boromir a swift but thorough examination, reading through notes given him by Ioreth. It was true the woman was now ancient, but she was as sharp as a dagger and missed nothing. He was pleased with what he read, and announced that Boromir was doing much better than he had hoped.

"But," said the king, "You are far from sound just yet. I understand you are well attended."

"I blame you for that!" laughed Boromir, "Faramir managed to scrape him off of me long enough to get a decent night's sleep. And it's just unnatural for a hobbit to skip meals as he has done."

"Scrape him off of you? _Scrape him off of you! _You complain!" Faramir barked with laughter, "Yet you would not part with them for a chest full of gold." 

"Too true, I fear. I blame our king for this, too; he did not warn me about hobbits."

"Would it have done any good?" asked Aragorn, taking a chair beside Faramir.

"None, I fear. In those days I would not have heeded your warning."

"He never heeded anyone's warnings!" Faramir added.

Aragorn called for supper for the three of them, and the three men ate heartily. Afterwards they spent their time exchanging stories and planning the future of Adrahil. Boromir had insisted on showing him mercy, and after much persuasion, Faramir and Aragorn relented.

The discussion went from there to Firiel and her fate, and the three spoke long into the night on the subject. Afterwards, Aragorn didn't like the strain it had put on his charge, and ordered Boromir to rest. He called for a sleeping potion for Boromir and bid the two brothers goodnight.

The hobbits returned early the next morning, bringing a huge breakfast with them. Merry seemed to be happy that Pippin had finally gotten a decent night's rest. Pippin was quite restored and in a good humor after having a little respite from his cares. He needed to be with Merry; had always done so. The two seemed to wither without each other. This was one of the many things that had endeared them to Boromir, and he could never truly think of them individually, try as he might. What affected one affected the other.

The night off had put both hobbits in higher spirits, and they eagerly served breakfast to the two Men themselves. Once the dishes were cleared away to be washed up, and they had had a pipe, Pippin bounded onto the bed along with Merry, who, while not exactly _bounding _onto the bed, certainly took his place there, bringing the little blue book with him.

"Whose turn is it?" Merry asked, looking from Boromir to Faramir.

"Mine, I think," said Boromir, settling back with a few pillows under his head. He waited until Faramir had sat himself on the bed, then he began to speak.

"Where was I? Let's see…Firiel…as I said, she didn't behave much like a little girl, though it was impossible to miss the fact that she _was_ a little girl, even resembling Pippin as much as she did. As she grew older, she became more and more headstrong. Perhaps this too, was my doing. I can't know that, but it may be.

She was headstrong, but her size and health matched her personality not at all, for she was still far smaller and sicklier than other girls her age. She began to wander about more and more on her own. Within the walls of the city, this could be bad enough, but she took to wandering in the woodlands and down to our favorite fishing and swimming spots on her own. 

Her father, Thalion, worried about her constantly. She was good at slipping away, and good at hiding, and when she would go missing, she would only come out of hiding for Faramir and I. Many times we had to scour the city and the entire area to find her when she had been missing all day. Her nurse couldn't keep up with her at all.

One winter, she decided she would go rabbit hunting. Faramir and I had taught her to use a little bow, and she was quite good with it. We were with Thalion at sword practice when her nurse came in, frantic with worry. Firiel had disappeared that morning. Her bow and quiver was gone as well, so we knew she was in the woodlands. It was near dark, and her long absence sent us all in a mad search for her. We combed the city first, and when she couldn't be found, we set out to look through the woods where we thought she might be.

It was Faramir who found her. She had fallen into a nearby pond earlier that day, and had built a small fire to warm herself and dry her clothing. She knew if she showed up after such truancy and with her clothes sodden, she would be in trouble with both her father and her nurse. By the time she was found, she was coughing terribly, and already a fever had set in. Her frail little body simply would not stand up to the punishment she put it through.

I know, Merry, that this puts you in mind of a certain Master Took; you've told me about his childhood illnesses. I know quite well the fear that this can put into one. No one ever tells you about this side of love. It is something, sadly, we learn on our own. I had lost my mother, and knew this all too well, but with one so young, it catches one by surprise. 

We carried her back to the city and straight to the healer. Thalion and her nurse were beside themselves with fear. She was shivering from the fever, her clothes were still quite wet, and she could barely breathe. She was taken to a bed and warmed, but by then it was too late, and she became quite ill.

She was bedridden the rest of the winter. She was an impossible patient. Ioreth could do nothing with her. She wanted Faramir or me to take care of her, but this was deemed a bit improper. Thalion finally came to us for help, in spite of the fact that, as her father, he knew that it was not seemly for his little girl to be cared for by a pair of young soldiers. 

When we came to her, she was in the middle of a temper tantrum, throwing her dishes and medicines at the nurse. She refused to behave, even for Faramir. It wasn't until I took her in my arms and sat her on my lap that she would be persuaded to eat and take her medicines. I rocked her to sleep, just as I had when she was a baby. I bathed her forehead with a cool cloth. I fed her, changed her bedding, I did everything I could for her. Slowly, she began to heal.

One evening, as she sat in my lap, she suddenly kissed my cheek and said she was sorry she had caused so much trouble. Then she kissed my cheek again, and asked me to marry her. I, of course, told her I would. Her nurse was outraged, but Thalion thought it was both sweet and humorous. I made her promise, as my bride-to-be, not to run off like that again.

After that, she started wearing dresses without a bit of trouble. She even wore shoes. She always made a point of parading about, flouncing her skirts in an outrageously flirtatious manner for me until I would comment on how pretty she was. Wonder of wonders, she even started playing with dolls. She always insisted that she was to marry me, and she never broke her promise to not run off again. 

She was trying to grow up. She would primp in front of a mirror for hours, and much to her nurses' alarm, Thalion said she should have proposed to me years ago. One could see that some day she would make a beautiful young woman, though small and frail. She was becoming a little vain, and took care to match her frocks with her eyes whenever she could. Almost all her dresses were green, and they really did set off her eyes remarkably, seeming to make emeralds of them. They lit up when I walked into a room where she was.

Needless to say, I began to spoil her more than ever. I spent a great deal of money on her as well as a great deal of my spare time. Had I not been the son of Denethor, and a rather large and at this time well trained soldier, I might have been the butt of quite a lot of jokes. This happened only once, a cousin of mine making a jest about my having a living doll to play dress-up with. He sported a black eye for some time after that.

Of course this only encouraged her infatuation with me, and I loved her so I did nothing to discourage it. I could deny her nothing, and she adored me. 

When I had to go out on patrols, she missed me terribly, and worried constantly about me. She would follow Faramir about, nattering about how she hoped I would return to her safely, and when I would come home, she would be waiting patiently at the gate, where I would lift her to my shoulder and carry her home. I can still feel her innocent little kisses on my cheek, sometimes.

Then came that awful time when I returned one day and she was not there. I thought that at last her little infatuation had run its course, and was quite saddened by this. I wish it had been that simple. She had slipped out of the city to gather violets to make a bouquet for her returning warrior, and had disappeared. 

Her tracks had been found, and all about and over them was the tracks of a small band of orcs in their iron shoes. As soon as I heard this, I rode out to join the hunting party. I'm afraid I ruined a good horse catching up with them, but I could find no peace until I was on the trail of the orcs that had taken her.

A day and a half we tracked them, even eating on the trail. The thought of that bright little spirit taken by those monstrosities chilled our blood and raised such a fury in me I can never forget it. It burns in me still. 

We came upon them at last and cornered them against a sheer rock face, where we slaughtered as many as we could. The remainder dropped her and ran like the beasts they were. 

She had been bound like an animal and beaten bloody, and that was not the worst of it. She screamed when anyone tried to touch her. Her clothes had been ripped off, and it was plain to see…"

Boromir stopped and took a few slow breaths. When he looked at Pippin, who had taken in a breath with a sharp hiss, his hands were plastered across his mouth, and in his eyes was a look of horror. Merry and Faramir had caste their eyes on the floor, having knowledge of what had happened.

"It was plain to see she had been raped. And brutally so. Her little legs were bloody with the violence of it. Her perfect little mouth was a mass of blood and filth, and some of her teeth had been knocked out. She was wild-eyed, and could not speak a word, but only scream wordlessly, over and over. We finally had to wrap her in a horse-blanket to hold her, for she would not bear being touched. I could not grasp such cruelty and malice. I could not comprehend such evil. I sent her back to the city and rode after the few escaped orcs, riding them down and hacking them to bits. I was not interested in a clean kill. I have never felt such rage since then, nor do I hope to. Yes, it is true; I butchered them. This is something I never did before or will again, but I was in such a rage I was quite mad. She was only just a little girl! _Just a little girl…_"

Boromir stopped, and buried his face in his hands as though he wished he could take back the words and take back the memory. 

Faramir clasped his shoulder and they looked long into each other's eyes. This was one shared memory they did not love.

"Enough for now…" Faramir said, choking on his own words.

Since time began, there has never been a place of healing where tears were not shed. These are places of healing, but no one ever came to one by a happy chance. Too often grief stalks their halls, and grief now held sway.

Merry had been told Boromir had never grieved for his little friend, but he had not realized how deep this grief ran. He had seen Boromir weep a little, but never willingly in front of people, and he had always dried his tears up swiftly. Merry supposed this was just a Mannish behavior.

All the greater shock to him when Boromir wept now, for his body was wracked with deep sobs. Faramir held him and stroked his hair, with a soft "_Sshh… Sshh..."_

Merry heard a soft sound, and saw Pippin, too was weeping, almost silently, his hands still clasped over his mouth. He still had that look of horror in his eyes, and Merry guessed he was still trying to get his mind around the brutality of the tale. All his life Merry had looked after Pippin, nearly raising him himself. Countless times had he held Pippin as a little hobbit lad and soothed away his tears and comforted him, so it is no surprise that he did so now.

After a bit, the weeping subsided to sniffles and the odd errant tear. Throats were cleared, and some semblance of normalcy eased over them, but this didn't stop Pippin or Merry from embracing Boromir and Faramir after things had calmed a bit. Pippin settled himself beside Boromir and leaned against him as he had when he was but a youngster. Faramir, Boromir and Merry knew he was trying to comfort Boromir by giving him someone to care for once again. Though the gesture was transparent, it was also sincere, and Boromir didn't fail to appreciate it.

"Oh, my," he said, "I did not know so much pain lived in my heart yet."

"It was not your fault." Pippin said firmly.

"It _feels _like my fault."

"It felt like my fault when Gandalf fell, yet you convinced me it was not. I would convince you, now, of the same." Pippin took the big, scarred hand in his own, stroking the back of it softly and with a soft, low voice, repeated, "It was not your fault, Boromir. It was _not _your fault."

"Pippin is right," Merry asserted. "If anyone is to blame, it's the orcs. They _chose _to do that evil, Boromir. No one forced them to. They were more than willing, and they got no more than they deserved."

"Merry, do you not remember what Gandalf said? About not passing on death in judgment?" Boromir asked.

"Well, he didn't say _not _to, Boromir!" Pippin said vehemently, and a little impatiently. "He just said not to be too eager to."

Suddenly Boromir laughed. "Trust you, Pippin Took, to say such a thing! Nay! Do not look so put out! There is wisdom in your words, now I think on it."

"We're sorry about Firiel, Boromir," Merry added, squeezing Boromir between himself and Pippin now.

"What happened to her?" asked Pippin, "Did she ever get better?"

Boromir opened his mouth to speak, but Faramir cut him off. "Nay, I fear not. That, I think was the worst of it. Not only did she suffer that horror, but also those filthy creatures debased her yet further. She was made sick from their diseases that are passed on when one lies with another. It was as though her rape continued for some years. In the end, she died, her mind eaten away by the disease they gave her."

"Her death came long and slowly," Boromir added, "but in the end, it was a mercy she died. She was never herself again. For all purposes, she died that day. One more thing, though..those orcs carried little in the way of provisions." 

"I think I understand," said Pippin, his voice so low almost he couldn't be heard. "They carried no provisions because they planned to eat her."

"Yes," said Boromir. "And worse I was to learn, orcs do not confine these appetites for females only. Men and boys, too, they debase in this manner."

Pippin again looked horrorstruck. "You feared, then, that orcs would do…_that_…to Merry and me?"

After a pause which Boromir intended to allow the reality of Pippin's observation sink in, he answered, "Aye."

"Oh," Pippin said in a rush of breath. "_Oh, my heavens!_" Pippin had gone pale, then flushed a bright red.

"Do you understand, now, why I worried so about the two of you?" asked Boromir.

"I'm afraid so." Pippin answered. "But that did not happen, Boromir. Nor will it happen. They are defeated, and I hope now that your grief, too is defeated."

"My heart tells me so…" said Boromir with a small smile that was an odd mixture of sadness and hope.

"Then the telling of her story was worth the strain on you, brother!" Faramir said, "But enough, as I said. Let us now move on, and turn the page."

"Yes, let's do." added Merry, handing Faramir the little blue journal.

Boromir grinned broadly now. "Yes, let us do that. My heart is lighter already. It was a good thing to speak of this, but let us now turn the page."

Faramir suddenly lifted Pippin, sat beside Boromir in his place, then pulled Pippin onto his lap. Pippin squeaked with the indignity of it, but didn't move. Faramir had the journal open, after all, and he began to read.

"Now where we?" Faramir said, flipping through the pages. "Ah, here we are…"

__

They have taken to their sword practice with a will I had not anticipated. Both are far better than I hoped, for a pair that has only just begun to learn the skill. I must say that I take great comfort in this, and now can afford to worry about them a little less….

FINIS


End file.
